


Ties That Bind

by ladyazura



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Faeries - Freeform, Gen, Memory Alteration, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Repressed Memories, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles' Name is Mieczysław
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyazura/pseuds/ladyazura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is gone. Not missing, just gone, as if he vanished into thin air. To make matters even more complicated, no one but Lydia seems to remember he ever existed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dissonance (Part 1)

_Dead leaves crunch beneath naked feet as he wanders through the woods. It’s dark, the only source of light coming from moon peeking through the canopy of trees above him. He can barely make out the path in front of him, but he can feel the cold ground under his toes, the dirt and twigs, the jagged stones that prick his skin and_ should _hurt but don’t. It’s as if his body doesn’t even register the pain. His legs simply keep moving, an invisible force pressing him forward._

_He zigs and zags along the trail, seemingly no destination in mind, until finally he reaches a clearing._

_The Nemeton stands tall and full and imposing, towering over the surrounding trees like a giant._

_He approaches slowly. From his peripheral, tiny lights – fireflies? – dart past but he pays them no heed. A gust of wind picks up, rustling the leaves around him, and amidst the breeze a voice calls out, barely above a whisper._

“Mieczysław.”

 

oOo

 

 

 

The sound of an alarm, loud and obnoxious, jarred Stiles violently from his slumber.

 

Jerking up, he managed to knock over his beside lamp as he groped around for his phone. Thumbing at the “snooze” button while trying to detangle himself from the sheets coiled around his limbs proved to be a challenge but at long last, the blaring noise came to an end. He tossed the phone lazily across the room before falling back against the headboard with a groan.

 

His heart was still pounding and he was drenched in a cold sweat, making his shirt cling uncomfortably to his skin. Worse yet, every muscle in his body ached in a way they hadn’t since he joined the lacrosse team freshmen year. Those first few practices had been brutal.

 

Raking a hand through his hair, Stiles sat up further, throwing the covers off his legs and swinging them over the edge of the bed. He was about to get up when he noticed the trail of dirty footprints on the floor, leading directly to him. His brow furrowed, eyes flickering to the culprit.

 

His own feet. Covered in dirt and grime and possibly dry blood. The sight jogged his memory and he thought back to the dream, now a blurred mishmash of nonsensical images. Except for one, which he recalled in vivid detail: the Nemeton.

 

A knock at the door snapped the teen back to reality.

 

“Hey Kiddo, you up?”

 

Stiles cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute!”

 

“Alright.” His dad called back. “Well, I’m heading to the station. Call me if you need anything.”

 

“‘kay.”

 

He waited until he heard his father walk away before finally getting up and chancing a glance at his reflection in the mirror.

 

Hollow eyes and sickly pale skin stared back.

 

He looked like shit.

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

“You look like shit.” Was the first thing out of his ex-girlfriend’s mouth when she saw him.

 

Stiles rolled his eyes, closing his locker and turning to face her with a strained smile. “We talked about this, remember? You can’t just –”

 

“And you stink.”

 

In one ear and out the other…

 

“Gee, thanks.” He said dryly.

 

Malia scoffed.

 

“Not like that. Like… anxiety.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and Stiles knew instantly that he was about to be interrogated. “Why are you anxious?”

 

“I’m not!”

 

“Then why do you smell like it?”

 

“I don’t know. One of the many wonders of the universe, I guess, now can we drop it?” He asked, sounding more exasperated than he would have liked.

 

Fortunately, before Malia could protest, the bell rang. She winced, covering her ears, and he would have felt bad if he weren’t so relieved.

 

“Why is it so _loud_?” She grumbled, glaring upward.

 

“You can issue a complaint later but right now: class. Let’s go.”

 

They reached Econ just as the second bell sounded, and Stiles slipped into his usual spot behind Scott and across from Lydia. The Banshee smiled in greeting before turning her attention to Malia and striking up a conversation about a possible sleepover. Stiles zoned out as soon as he heard “mani-pedi” – Lydia’s nails might have been perfect, like most everything else about her, but he wasn’t all that interested in how they came to _be_ that way. Instead, he flipped open his binder and began skimming through his notes in an attempt to refresh his brain.

 

Until his vision blurred. It only lasted a second, and a quick eye rub brought it back into focus, but apparently the brief spike in his pulse was enough to alert the werewolf in front of him.

 

“Dude.” Scott turned, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

 

“ _See_?” Malia hissed from behind.

 

“Oh my God!” Stiles threw his hands up in frustration, much to Scott’s confusion. “Seriously? Both of you need to knock it off with your were-…” he stopped when he noticed his outburst had garnered attention from their classmates before reluctantly meeting Scott’s gaze once everyone went back to their own business. “Nothing’s wrong, okay dude? I’m _fine_. Happy as a clam!”

 

“Glad to hear it, Stilinski, ‘cause you’re not gonna feel that way for much longer.” Finstock remarked, walking through the door with a stack of paper and dropping it on his desk. Loudly. “Time for a pop quiz!”

 

A collective groan echoed throughout the room, wiping the gleefully sadistic grin from Finstock’s face.

 

“Quit whining or I _swear to God_ , I will fail you all. I’m serious. Just ask Greenberg if you don’t believe me.”

 

That seemed to shut everyone up.

 

Once he had the test in front of him, Stiles wasted no time getting started.

 

He breezed through the first half like it was nothing. And it really wasn’t. Even if he didn’t know the answers (which he did. Because when he wasn’t dealing with all the supernatural craziness that plagued their town, or catching up on sleep because of said supernatural craziness, he actually _did_ do his homework) going off on tangents that had nothing to do with Economics had proved surprisingly successful in the past. With Harris being the exception.

 

Because Harris was a dick. So much so that literally _no one_ at school questioned his disappearance or cared when his corpse finally turned up after Jennifer – Julia? Whatever – was dealt with. Least of all Stiles, who had been his main target for two years.

 

Good riddance. One less asshole in the world.

 

Snorting to himself, Stiles shook the thought of his former History teacher from his mind and focused back on the quiz in front of him.

 

He was midway through reading a question when his vision began to blur once more. He rubbed his eyes, but to no avail. He grit his teeth, trying to stay calm as the letters danced across the page in a way that was far too familiar.

 

 _This isn’t real._ He reminded himself, as if that would make it stop.

 

His pen fell to the floor with a clatter. All around him, the sound of lead and ink scratching against paper echoed in his ears as his classmates scribbled down answers in a trance-like state. No one seemed to notice he was breathing harder, or that his hands were trembling, or that –

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

 

_“Mieczysław, don’t go too far. Make sure I can still see you.”_

 

 

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

The room began to spin. His chest tightened painfully. It felt as if someone had reached in and grabbed his heart in a vice-grip, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe.

 

He was having a panic attack, he realized, eyes darting frantically around the room in hopes that someone – anyone – would notice.

 

He stood abruptly, clutching the front of his shirt as he stumbled out of his seat and toward the door.

 

Stiles heard Finstock shout something after him, but he ignored him.

 

He had to –

 

 

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

 

_He looks up and sees a beautiful woman standing at the edge of the forest, not far from where he’s been playing. She smiles at him, vibrant eyes twinkling mischievously, and beckons him over._

_“Come. Let me show you something.”_

_He knows he shouldn’t. His dad is always telling him not to go anywhere with strangers, but she doesn’t look scary or dangerous. He feels… drawn to her. Like a moth to the flame, he gets up and makes his way over, leaving his toys behind._

 

 

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

_“Mieczysław? Mieczysław, where are you?”_

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Mieczysław? Stiles!”_

 

 

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Time’s up!”

 

Stiles blinked, coming to. He was back at his desk.

 

Had he fallen asleep? Had an out-of-body experience? As everyone quickly scribbled down last-second answers before Finstock came to collect, he slumped back, feeling… disoriented. Hazy. Like his mind was trapped in a fog.

 

“Stiles? Are you okay?”

 

He glanced over to see Lydia watching him, brows pinched together.

 

“I’m fine.” He lied.

 

“Really.” It was more of a statement than a question, like she knew he was lying.

 

When he followed her skeptical gaze to the test in front of him, he understood why.

 

It was blank.


	2. Dissonance (Part 2)

During their spare, Lydia cornered him in the library.

 

Well, technically not _cornered_. Not in the way Malia and Derek seemed to favor, by backing him into and or slamming him into walls and attempting to _glare_ the truth out of him.

 

More like… nonchalantly pulled up a chair across from him.

 

And waited.

 

Brows arched, chin resting against her knuckles, green eyes sharp and calculating.

 

On one hand, Stiles was relieved it was just Lydia and not the entire pack – because that would have felt more like an intervention. On the other hand, it was _Lydia_ , and when Lydia wanted something, Lydia got it. Shoes, boys, _answers_ … and perhaps it was because he’d spent over half his life pathetically pining from afar and putting her on an unrealistic pedestal (which, in hindsight, was unfair to her and kind of creepy and, really, he was lucky she didn’t have a restraining order against him) but he could already feel himself cracking under the weight of her stare alone.

 

“Okay!” He cried, finally caving.

 

Lydia perked up, eyes glinting triumphantly.

 

He took a deep breath. “Last night I… had a weird dream. That’s all.”

 

Case closed.

 

It might have worked with anyone else. At least, anyone who wasn’t a werewolf. Or his dad. But any hope of Lydia letting it go went out the window when she spoke.

 

“Weird like how?”

 

Because of course she wouldn’t just take his word at face value. Lydia may have lacked the ability to hear his heartbeat or smell when his “scent” was off but blind or stupid she was not.

 

“Like… possibly supernatural?” He paused, thinking back to the Nemeton in all its full glory, and then promptly corrected himself. “Scratch that. _Definitely_ supernatural.”

 

Lydia’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”

 

He grimaced. “At last ninety-nine point nine percent sure. And, well, the last time I had a Nemeton-related dream, I wound up with an evil fox spirit in my head so I might be a little paranoid right now.” Lydia visibly winced, but said nothing. He sighed, staring over her shoulder. “At first I thought maybe it was just… stress or something. We’re graduating soon, exams are coming up, we just finished dealing with all that Dread Doctor stuff… but earlier I think I blacked out and hallucinated a panic attack that never actually happened.”

 

He met Lydia’s concerned gaze.

 

“But it felt real. Everything – the sweaty palms, the hyperventilating, my heart beating so fast I was convinced it was going to literally burst out of my chest. All of it. But it wasn’t, and now I’m not even sure if _this_ –” he gestured between them, “is real or if it’s just another hallucination.”

 

He swallowed, glancing down at his hands. They were shaking.

 

“What if it’s happening again?” He asked, his voice barely above a panicked whisper. “What if it’s back? What if it was just lying low for a while, biding its time and waiting for us to let our guard down? What if –”

 

“ _Stiles_.”

 

Suddenly, Lydia was beside him, grasping his hands firmly. Almost instantly, he felt a calm settle over him, the tension in his muscles fading until he was completely relaxed. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, using the technique his therapist had taught him after his mother had died and only opening them again when Lydia gave his hands a reassuring squeeze.

 

“Listen to me, and listen well. The Nogitsune is gone. We beat it. _You_ beat it.” She stressed. Releasing one of his hands, she reached over, the tips of her fingers brushing against the spot behind his ear where the Oni had marked him. A delightful shiver climbed up his spine but if Lydia noticed she didn’t comment on it, instead adding softly, “This is proof that you’re you.”

 

“Thanks,” he murmured, lifting his gaze to meet hers.

 

Lydia smiled warmly, her fingers lingering where they were, still pressed against the kanji.

 

It was then that Stiles became aware of their closeness, of how warm and soft her hand was on his skin. He could smell her perfume, light traces of lavender that tickled his nostrils and fogged his senses in all the right ways. As time seemed to slow, he lost himself in her eyes, unable to look away until she did. To his surprise, she didn’t jerk back. Instead, her gaze dropped to his mouth. Instinctively, he licked his lips and for a moment, he thought she was going to kiss him, like she had the last time he’d had a panic attack.

 

But then Lydia shook her head, snapping out of her daze and breaking whatever spell they’d fallen under, and pulled away. Or would have had Stiles’ own hand not shot up of its own accord to stop her, covering hers and keeping it where it was.

 

Lydia blinked, clearly taken aback. Stiles couldn’t blame her – so was he.

 

“Stiles…” she started once she found her voice, and Stiles braced himself for the inevitable rejection.

 

He knew this song and dance.

 

Releasing her hand, he let her step back and mustered a goofy grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

“Sorry,” he laughed, hoping to alleviate the tension. “Completely spaced out there.”

 

Lydia frowned, looking like she wanted to say something – possibly call his bluff – but faltered.

 

“I should go.” She said quietly. “I have to meet with the Yearbook Committee before lunch.”

 

“Right. Well, don’t let me keep you.” If he smiled any harder, his face was going to crack.

 

“I’ll call you later if I find anything in the Beastiary related to your… symptoms. Okay?” She went on, straightening herself up and shouldering her bag.

 

“Sure. Keep me posted.”

 

She threw him one last nervous smile before making her way out of the library, heels clicking behind her.

 

Stiles watched her go silently, letting go of the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The ache in his chest was a familiar one, not unlike the one he’d felt watching her and Jackson embrace. It was something he was used to. The sad truth was, Lydia would never love him – not in the way he loved her. And he was fine with that. He was content just being in her life at all, being her friend, being someone she could lean on and rely on without having an ulterior motive.

 

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

Dinner was… abnormally quiet as far as Stilinski dinners generally went.

 

Not that Stiles was complaining. He wasn’t in the mood for talking. Unfortunately, that made his dad suspicious, because talking was something he was known to do. A lot. Nine times out of ten, the trouble he got into was a direct result of talking – and usually of the “mouthing off to people he probably shouldn’t be mouthing off to” variety. Teachers, werewolves, geriatric nutjobs… the list was endless. So the lack of talking was, suffice to say, somewhat out of character, and he could feel his dad casting him curious glances from across the dining room table every so often.

 

“So, have you thought about what schools you’ll be applying to?”

 

Ah, the casual approach. Well played.

 

“Yeah, you know, I’ve been thinking and – what if I just stayed here? Didn’t we already decide I was going into law enforcement? You can pull some strings, right? I mean, who needs college when your dad’s the Sheriff, am I right? Besides, if I leave, who’s going to make sure you stick to your diet? I guess I could try to bribe Parrish but –”

 

“Stiles. You’re rambling.”

 

Busted.

 

“Are you going to tell me what’s really on your mind or is this just going to be one of those things you ignore until it backfires spectacularly?”

 

“That’s generally my preferred method, yes.”

 

“Uh-huh. And how’s that working out for you?”

 

“Well, until about two years ago I’d say it was foolproof.”

 

As it turned out, lying about werewolves and other such supernatural-related shenanigans was a lot harder than movies and teen literature would have one believe.

 

His father simply raised a brow.

 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “If it makes you feel any better, I already talked to someone.”

 

“Who, Marin?”

 

Stiles made a face. “ _Who_?”

 

John Stilinski shot his son an incredulous look.

 

“Your school counselor, Stiles, the one you’ve had for four years? Ring any bells up in that thick skull of yours?”

 

Oh, her.

 

“Ohhh-kay. Not even gonna ask why you’re on a first-name basis with her but – no. Not her.” Definitely not her. Ms. Morrell was just as enigmatic as Deaton – if not more so, with her questionable loyalties – and Stiles didn’t particularly enjoy having her pick away at his brain. Especially after learning about her involvement in the supernatural aspect of their lives.

 

“Melissa, then?” John looked slightly more relieved.

 

Stiles shook his head. “Lydia.”

 

“ _Lydia_.” John repeated, as if making sure he’d heard right.

 

“ _Yes_ , Lydia. About yay-high? Green eyes, strawberry blonde hair? I’m sure you’ve met her once or twice.” Stiles replied cheekily, shoveling a spoonful of peas into his mouth. When he glanced back over at his dad, he frowned. “What? I know she’s not a licensed therapist but at least I talked to someone, right? Silver linings, Dad.”

 

John simply sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, dropping his gaze guiltily. A part of him knew he should just be honest with his dad about the sleepwalking and hallucinations but even without the constant threat of supernatural danger hanging over them, the man had enough on his plate. He was still paying off hospital bills from his own stay a while back. And if, by chance, his weird dream the night before and whatever the hell he’d experienced in class had nothing to do with the supernatural, well…

 

He glared down at his dinner, stabbing at his baby carrots in frustration like they had personally offended him.

 

Still… honesty was the best policy. He’d learned that the hard way, thanks to Theo.

 

“Let’s just say… I might’ve taken a stroll through the Preserve last night.” He confessed finally.

 

John frowned. “You’re sleepwalking again? Are you having blackouts? How are your headaches?”

 

“Dad, relax. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just… stress.” He didn’t know who he was trying to convince more – his dad or himself. “Lydia’s already looking into any supernatural connection.” At his father’s perplexed look, he waved a dismissive hand. “Nemeton stuff, don’t worry about it.”

 

“Don’t worry about it?” John sputtered. “Stiles –!”

 

Stiles ignored him. “We’re all going to feel pretty silly when it turns out to be nothing. Seriously, it’s probably just stress manifesting itself into the form of the thing that’s literally the root cause of everything bad that happens in this town.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Get it? _Root_ cause?”

 

His father fixed him with a blank stare, obviously not as amused. “Not funny, Stiles.”

 

“You just don’t appreciate good puns.”

 

“I do. That just wasn’t _good_.” The Sheriff countered. He eyed Stiles skeptically for a moment before adding, “You know, denial’s not just a river in Egypt.”

 

Stiles smirked. “No, but it keeps me optimistic.”

 

“I think you mean _delusional_.”

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

Later that evening, after finishing his homework and scouring the internet for possible answers (and coming up short because Google and Wikipedia only knew so much) he got a call from Lydia. He was a little surprised when he saw her number; he knew she’d told him she would call, but after what had happened in the library, followed by an awkward departure, at most all he was expecting was a text. A wave of relief washed over him as he answered.

 

“Hey, what’s up?” He greeted, trying to sound as casual as possible.

 

_“Have you told your dad?”_

Stiles grimaced.

 

“I’m starting to wonder if you really are psychic.”

 

_“Don’t change the subject. This could be serious.”_

 

“Fine. Yes, I told him.”

 

_“Good.”_

 

“Have you found anything in the Beastiary?” He asked.

 

 _“Not yet. There’s still a good chunk that needs translating.”_ She replied.

 

“Didn’t you already do that?”

 

He could practically hear her rolling her eyes as she huffed on the other end of the line. _“You try translating Archaic Latin after being locked up for a month. It’s incredibly time consuming.”_

 

“It can’t be that hard. For you, I mean.”

 

 _“Is that flattery, I detect?”_ She teased.

 

A small smile tugged at his lips. “You already know what I think of your smarts.”

 

_“A girl likes to be reminded every now and then.”_

 

“Lydia, listen… about earlier today…” he started uncertainly.

 

_“What about it?”_

 

He licked his lips nervously. “I just wanted to apologize if… I made things weird between us.”

 

 _“You didn’t make things weird between us.”_ He could tell from her tone that she wasn't entirely truthful.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

_“I’m sure.”_

 

“So we’re cool?”

 

 _“Totally. If anything, I…”_ she trailed off. She didn’t say anything for a while, but Stiles could still hear her breathing so she clearly hadn’t hung up. That was reassuring. After a minute or so, she let out a sigh and muttered something he didn’t quite catch.

 

“Lydia? You alright?” He asked, growing concerned.

 

_“Yes. No. I don’t know. Sorry, I just have a lot on my mind. My thoughts are all over the place right now.”_

 

“Welcome to my brain 24/7.” Stiles joked.

 

He heard her laugh on the other end and smiled, feeling stupidly giddy.

 

_“Stiles, I think –”_

 

Before Lydia could finish whatever she was going to say, the line went dead. Stiles frowned, pulling the phone away from his ear to stare at it. Had he accidentally hung up on her? Above him, the light flickered, and from his peripheral he could see the street lamp outside their house experiencing the same problem. Brows knitting together, he walked over to his window and watched it flicker a few more times before completely going out. Like a domino effect, the remaining street lamps followed suit until the entire neighbourhood was cast in darkness.

 

“What the hell…” he muttered, fumbling with his phone.

 

He was about to dial Scott’s number to let him know that something bizarre was happening when he was suddenly struck with a wave of fatigue.

 

Lids heavier than ever, Stiles barely managed to stumble over to his bed before sleep took him.

 

 

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

 

_“Mieczysław.”_

 

 

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

 

When Stiles came to, he found himself standing on the edge of the Preserve. Above him, the moon looked twice as large as it usually was and was his only source of light. He wasn’t sure how he got there. His mind was foggy and he felt a little disoriented, but like in his dream, he found himself entering the forest and making his way down the winding, foot-trodden path that he’d taken countless times before, keeping his eyes and ears peeled. He knew it was stupid to wander alone. He’d seen enough horror movies to know it never ended well – but it was as if something was pulling him, deeper and deeper into the woods until he didn’t even know where he was anymore.

 

Everything looked the same. Every tree, every bush, every log and rock and stream.

 

Still, he kept walking, until finally he reached a familiar clearing.

 

Unlike in his dream, the Nemeton was still a stump. That would have brought Stiles some relief, if not for the woman sitting there, bathed in moonlight.

 

He froze, breath catching in his throat.

 

The woman turned, smiling when she saw him.

 

“Mieczysław,” she said by way of greeting, extending a pale hand and beckoning him over.

 

“Mom?”

 

The last time he’d seen his mother, she was lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to life support machines and unable to recognize him, her mind and body laid to waste by the disease. The woman sitting before him looked healthy and vibrant, like how she’d looked before she got sick, her amber eyes glittering. Against his better judgment, Stiles took a cautious step toward her, then another, and another, until he was enveloped in her arms.

 

 

“I’ve missed you, Mieczysław. So, so much. You’ve missed me too, haven’t you?”

 

His throat tightened, tears burning his eyes as he clung to her.

 

“How is this possible?” He had to be dreaming. None of this make any sense. Claudia Stilinski was dead. He’d seen it happen, watched the life fade from her eyes as she took her final breath and left the world. “This can’t be real. You’re not real.”

 

He shook his head and stepped back, but her embrace tightened.

 

“Where are you going, Mieczysław?” Her voice sounded strange, distorted almost. “Stay here.”

 

“I can’t.” He choked out. “Dad –”

 

“Forget him.” His mother hissed in his ear.

 

“ _What_?”

 

Reaching up, Claudia cupped his face and forced him to look her directly in the eye. He stopped struggling, unable to look away.

 

“There’s nothing for you here, Mieczysław. It’s best if you just forget. Forget them all.”

 

That was the last thing Stiles Stilinski heard before the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I expected, even though I had half of it written already. Apologies! These first two chapters are basically just set up, and I have a general idea of where I’m going with this so after this chapter, everything else should be a breeze. For me. Not the characters. 
> 
> Also, apparently next season is going to involve Nazi Werewolves? At least those are the rumours I've seen floating around. Not sure how I feel about that but whatever. I’m sticking with my own prediction.
> 
> Side note, I’m not sure if Lydia is actually on the Yearbook Committee. I feel like she’s probably one of those girls who has a lot of extra-curriculars under her belt… when not dealing with the craziness that is Beacon Hills, that is.
> 
> Once again, I apologize for taking so long. Please REVIEW and let me know what you think! Feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome.


	3. Vanishing Act

_“Forget them all.”_

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

Lydia sat up with a gasp, a racing heart, and Stiles’ name on the tip of her tongue.

 

She’d fallen asleep at her desk. The Beastiary lay open in front of her and her phone was clutched tightly in her grasp. Setting it aside, she flexed her fingers before combing them through her hair. She felt groggier than usual and her neck was stiff; how Stiles could fall asleep anywhere, anytime, and in literally any position – no matter how uncomfortable it _had_ to be – was beyond her. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, smudging the remnants of her mascara even more. _Stiles_. The last thing she remembered was talking to him, just before the line had gone dead.

 

Her head throbbed, and the sun spilling in from her window was doing little to make it better. She rummaged through her desk before pulling out a bottle of Aspirin and popping one into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she massaged her temples and tried to clear her mind. A knock jarred her from her reverie.

 

“Lydia, are you up?” Her mother’s voice was muffled behind the door.

 

“Yes,” she answered, voice raspy with sleep. She cleared it and stood, stretching her limbs before shedding her clothes and changing into something new.

 

She went about her morning routine as usual, splashing cold water on her face to wake herself up and scrubbing away whatever makeup remained from the previous day. After applying just enough concealer to hide the dark circles under her eyes, she pulled her hair up into a messy bun that sat atop her head and stared at her reflection. It was strange. Not long ago, she would have never left the house unless she was dolled up to perfection and dressed to the nines in designer clothes. She cringed when she thought about how stupid and vapid and materialistic she had been, hiding her intelligence so as not to shatter her boyfriend’s delicate ego and clinging to popularity like it was the only thing that mattered.

 

So much had changed since then. She was no longer the most popular girl in school, dating the most popular boy and putting on the façade of having a perfect life. And she was perfectly okay with that. She didn’t care if her peers whispered behind her back that she was “crazy”; her friends knew she wasn’t. Her _Pack_ knew she wasn’t. Her Pack accepted her for exactly who she was, and that was all that mattered.

 

Without the confines of popularity, she was free.

 

She was happy.

 

“Smile, Lydia. Someone could be falling in love with you.” She said to herself.

 

Satisfied, Lydia grabbed her belongings, stuffing the Beastiary into her bag so she could look through it during her free period, and joined her mother in the kitchen.

 

“Late night?” Natalie asked her daughter, finishing her coffee and setting the mug in the sink.

 

“Sort of,” Lydia replied with a yawn. “Did we have a power shortage or something?”

 

She vaguely recalled her ceiling light flickering before her conversation with Stiles was cut short.

 

“If it did, it didn’t last long.” Her mother answered. “Why, were you trying to study?”

 

Lydia shook her head. “Just checking the Beastiary for Stiles.”

 

“Ooh, new boyfriend?” Natalie teased.

 

Lydia blanched. “Stiles and I are just friends.”

 

_Liar._

 

Okay, so that wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t _not_ true, either. “Complicated” was probably the best word to describe it, however cliché. She knew she felt _something_ for Stiles, but she couldn’t pinpoint _what_. But she knew it wasn’t completely platonic; it wasn’t the kind of affection she had for Scott and Malia and the rest of the Pack, but it also wasn’t what she’d felt for Jackson. Jackson had been her first love. He had been her first everything, and despite their turbulent relationship, especially toward the end, a part of her would probably always love him.

 

She tried to think about when her feelings for Stiles had shifted; when he had gone from being a minor nuisance she barely knew existed to being one of the most important people in her life. Was it during the Winter Formal? Was it when he’d helped her save Jackson? When he comforted her after Meredith’s death? Or was it when she had kissed him to stop his panic attack? Her mind lingered on that particular memory. She _had_ felt something then, a fact that only Allison knew and took to her grave.

 

At the time, it hadn’t mattered. She’d been seeing Aiden, technically, and then the stuff with the Nogitsune happened and Allison had died and she hadn’t really had time to reflect on what that kiss meant. When he and Malia had started dating, she had pushed that memory to the back of her mind because what would be the point in dwelling over it when Stiles had clearly moved on?

 

Only now…

 

She thought about the previous day in the library, about Stiles’ eyes boring into hers, and how badly she’d wanted to just give into instinct and close the distance between them.

 

So why hadn’t she?

 

As she and her mother left the house and headed for school, Lydia continued to ponder.

 

She was one of the first to arrive to Econ and while her sleep-deprived classmates slowly trickled in, she took the Beastiary out of her bag and skimmed through it, but nothing she’d already translated jumped out. She sighed and out of the corner of her eye, saw Scott wander in, followed closely by Malia. Glancing around, she noticed that nearly everyone was there, but Stiles’ desk remained noticeably empty. Her brows furrowed and she leaned over, tapping Scott on the shoulder with her pen.

 

The Alpha turned, giving her a curious look. She jerked her head towards Stiles’ desk.

 

“Where’s Stiles? Is he sick?” She asked.

 

Scott narrowed his eyes in confusion but before he could answer, Coach Finstock marched into the classroom, grumbling under his breath before slamming the stack of papers in his arms – their tests, if she had to guess – onto his desk and glaring at them.

 

He then proceeded to launch into a furious tirade about their collective stupidity.

 

“Unbelievable! How any of you managed to pass _Kindergarten_ is just… baffling! If you ever needed proof that our current Education System is failing America, look no further. Half of you didn’t even write down your names!”

 

Somewhere amidst his rant, Lydia tuned him out, her gaze flickering to Stiles’ desk once more.

 

A sense of unease began to creep over her, one she had become all too familiar with.

 

It didn’t help that when Finstock did roll call, he skipped over “Stilinski” and went straight to “Tate”.

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

Trepidation gnawed away at Lydia throughout the remainder of homeroom and well into her next two classes. It was probably a good thing that she’d decided to stay behind and graduate with her friends instead of leaving for university a year early, because as the day dragged on, she became more and more restless, unable to concentrate on anything her teachers were actually teaching. What had started simply as an uneasy itch had slowly morphed into something more foreboding, something not unlike the feeling she had before stumbling across a corpse.

 

Lunch came and went, and no dead bodies turned up. On the surface, everything seemed to be fine, but the nagging whispers that _something_ was off continued to plague her, following her like a dark cloud.

 

“Lydia?”

 

Snapping out of her reverie, the Banshee found herself in the library, sitting across from two members of the Yearbook Committee eyeing her expectantly.

 

She blinked. “What?”

 

They shared a wary look that Lydia had long since grown accustomed to seeing on her classmates’ faces. She pressed her lips into a thin line, knowing exactly what they were thinking.

 

“We asked what you thought of the layout.” The girl finally answered, gesturing to the yearbook splayed open on the table.

 

Glancing down, Lydia began skimming through it, silently regretting having ever joined the Yearbook Committee (really, of _all_ the extra-curriculars she could have picked…) until one photo in particular caught her attention.

 

It was of the lacrosse team, taken right after a victory. Scott, Liam, Kira – even Danny was present – but what gave her pause was who wasn’t there: Stiles. Stiles, with his flushed face, hair plastered to his forehead and arm draped over Scott’s shoulders as he grinned at the camera. Instead, there was an empty space, as if he’d been cropped out of the picture somehow.

 

Confused, she quickly flipped to the senior pages, only to discover that he wasn’t there. No pictures, no name, no mention of Stiles at all. Nothing.

 

Standing abruptly, Lydia grabbed the yearbook and made a beeline for the library doors, ignoring her classmates’ protests all the while.

 

She needed to call Stiles. She needed to check up on him and make sure he was okay because _something was wrong_.

 

Lydia’s hands trembled as she took out her phone. She scrolled through her list of contacts frantically, but Stiles’ name had seemingly vanished. Shaking her head and trying desperately to calm her nerves, she quickly typed his number and pressed the phone to her ear, pacing back and forth all the while.

 

“Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up…” she whispered.

 

_“The number you have dialed does not exist. Please try again.”_

 

Lydia’s heart stopped, phone slipping through her fingers and clattering against the floor.

 

She thought about the dream she’d had the night before, about her mother’s “joke” that morning, about Coach Finstock skipping over Stiles’ name during roll call, and how he was missing from the pictures she knew for a fact that he’d been present for, and something clicked in her brain.

 

The hallway began to spin as a wave of dizziness washed over her, but just as her knees buckled, Scott was suddenly there, catching her before she hit the ground.

 

“Lydia? What is it?” He asked, worry etched across his face.

 

“It’s Stiles.” She said, throat tight as she grasped his shoulders to steady herself. “Something’s wrong. I tried calling him but it’s like… it’s like he just vanished into thin air!”

 

“Stiles?” Scott echoed, his brow furrowing in confusion.

 

“Yes, _Stiles_!” Lydia cried in exasperation. “I think someone took him or… I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it but _something_ happened to him and we need to –” she stopped when she saw the look Scott was giving her. Her stomach dropped as realization dawned on her. “You have no idea who I’m talking about.”

 

Scott didn’t say anything, but his silence was enough.

 

To his credit, he seemed genuinely torn, like he wanted to understand who or _what_ she was talking about but –

 

 _But_.

 

“I’m not crazy.” She whispered.

 

“I never said –”

 

“You didn’t have to. Poor Lydia. Poor, _crazy_ Lydia with the voices in her head that no one else can hear!” She sneered, pushing against him.

 

Even though he could have easily just stood there while she struggled against him, Scott stepped back, giving her the distance she wanted.

 

“He’s real.” She insisted, shoving the yearbook into his arms. “He’s real and he needs us, Scott. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know why no one else remembers, but I do, and I’m going to find him.”

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

A quick detour to the station only served to cement Lydia’s fears.

 

The lost look on Sheriff Stilinski’s face when she mentioned Stiles’ name was all she needed to know that she was completely on her own, because Sheriff Stilinski didn’t believe he had a son, or any children for that matter. In fact, he seemed to be under the impression that his late wife had been infertile, but before she could argue otherwise, she’d found herself being escorted out of his office by Jordan.

 

For a long time, she sat in the parking lot and dwelled, trying to piece together what was happening.

 

Stiles was gone.

 

Not missing.

 

Gone.

 

Erased.

 

It was as if Stiles Stilinski never existed.

 

No one remembered who he was. Not his teachers, not his best friend, not even his own father.

 

But Lydia did, and as long as someone remembered, Stiles would never completely disappear.

 

She was going to figure this out.

 

If their roles were reversed, she knew Stiles wouldn’t give up on her, so the last thing she was going to do was give up on him.

Somehow, someway, she would find him.

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

Lydia had gotten used to losing time and zoning out, so when she ended up in an entirely different location than the one she’d initially planned, well… she wasn’t exactly surprised.

 

But she was far from pleased.

 

Pulling up to her destination, Lydia stared at the sign that greeted her.

 

 _Eichen House_.

 

She’d never wanted to step foot in this place again, especially after being locked up, but she was desperate. There was only one person she could think of who might have _some_ insight as to what was going on.

 

The gated entrance opened with a groan as she approached, and she felt nauseous as she made her way up to the building, her heart pounding against her chest. A part of her wanted to just flee, but gut instinct trumped her desire to run. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she walked up to the main desk, keeping her head held high and her face as impassive as possible. She refused to let anyone see how nervous she was to be there, how _scared_.

 

The receptionist didn’t even so much as spare her a glance. This wasn’t a surprise; Eichen House was hardly known for their friendly staff and good bedside manner.

 

“Reason for visiting?” He asked dully, staring at the computer screen in front of him.

 

The corner of her mouth twitched.

 

“I’m not here for a visit.” She said coolly, taking out a sealed envelope and sliding it over. “I’m here to collect.”

 

That got the receptionist’s attention. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

 

“ _Who_?” He asked.

 

Lydia’s smirk grew.

 

“Peter Hale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on, the rest of the fic will be told from Lydia’s perspective. Mostly. 
> 
> Alright, so, the first official trailer for season 6 dropped and it seems that I was half right. I’m going to continue this but the Ghost Riders will play no part – I have a slightly different (but similar-ish?) villain in mind.


	4. A Deal with the Devil

Eichen House’s supernatural wing was located in the basement of the facility, deep underground and as far away from the “normal” patients as possible. It was heavily guarded and, as a final line of defense, Mountain Ash and various ancient runes were built into the structure, preventing the creatures kept there from escaping. As the Orderly lead her to her destination, Lydia tried not to listen to the screams that echoed around her – both living and dead. When they reached the cell at the end of the corridor, the Orderly came to a halt and took out a ring of keys. He rapped his knuckles against the barrier, alerting its occupant of their presence.

 

“Get up, Hale. Someone’s here to see you.”

 

In the end, his announcement wasn’t necessary, because Peter was already up, standing in the middle of the six-by-eight cell like he’d been expecting them. _Her_. It was all very Hannibal Lecter, a reference Lydia was sure Stiles would have appreciated had he been there. She felt her chest tighten at the thought of him, but kept her expression neutral. The last thing she wanted was for Peter to have the advantage. She waited until the Orderly was gone before turning her attention to the werewolf before her, fully taking him in.

 

He had definitely seen better days. His clothes were disheveled and his hair had grown out, its unkemptness giving him a more wild appearance. It reminded her of the night she’d resurrected him, after he’d clawed his way out of the grave. Peter cocked his head and smirked, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. It was a front, of course; he was a werewolf, not a mind reader.

 

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite Banshee.” He said by way of greeting. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit? It’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone. How _is_ our little ragtag pack of misfits faring without my tutelage? I fear I’m rather out of the loop these days.”

 

The “our” was not lost on her, and she narrowed her eyes, knowing full well that he was trying to get a rise out of her. Well, two could play at that game.

 

“We’re great.” She said, hoping he couldn’t detect the skip in her heartbeat. “Scott’s becoming a better Alpha every day.”

 

“I’m sure he is.” Peter drawled. “Is that why you’re here, Lydia? To rub salt on my wounds?”

 

“You brought this on yourself.” She reminded him, gesturing to their surroundings.

 

“I beg to differ.”

 

“You tried to kill Scott.”

 

“It was nothing personal. I like Scott – I _do_ ,” he insisted, when Lydia shot him a disbelieving glance, “but Scott’s way of doing things will be his pack’s undoing.”

 

“And you thought… what? That you’d make a better Alpha?” Lydia challenged.

 

“I don’t think. I _know_.” Blue eyes flashed dangerously and Lydia froze, breath catching in her throat. Holding her gaze, Peter went on. “I’m a born wolf. If Talia hadn’t come first, I would have inherited it once my mother passed. It’s my birthright and unlike our dear, hopelessly naïve Scott, I know how packs are _supposed_ to operate. The Hales were strong once. We thrived for centuries – until my sister took the reigns.” The bitterness in his voice did not go unnoticed by her, but she held her tongue and listened.

 

“I loved my sister but she was too idealistic, too trusting, always wanting to see the good in others, even those who wanted us dead, who saw us as nothing more than ravenous _dogs_ that needed to be put down – sound familiar? I tried to warn her. Countless times. Over and over, I told her that Gerard and his _ilk_ would come after us but she _never_ listened. If she if she had, perhaps she would have kept tighter leash on my nephew and tragedy could have been avoided.”

 

Lydia stood there, stunned, her feet rooted to the floor. She’d expected some back-and-forth banter, sure – that’s generally how most interactions with Peter went – but Peter unloading all of his emotional turmoil was… new. She honestly didn’t know how to respond, and wondered if he’d gone a little stir crazy during his stay at Eichen.

 

“And now Scott is following that same path.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to regain his composure. “In order for a pack to thrive, sometimes you have to make harsh decisions, and eliminate the threat _before_ it strikes. Scott will never do that.”

 

She hated that he was right. Scott was too good to “eliminate” potential threats. Her mind drifted to Theo and all the trouble he’d caused; the trouble that could have been avoided had Scott been more cautious. _Cautious_. Not ruthless, not what Peter was suggesting.

 

There had to be a middle ground.

 

“Where was this insight when you _were_ the Alpha?” Lydia asked when she found her voice again.

 

Peter chuckled darkly. “I admit, I wasn’t in my right mind back then, simply acting on pure instinct. Had I not been so reckless, I could have rebuilt my pack and made the Hale name great again.”

 

“Instead you went on a murderous rampage and got yourself killed.” Lydia said before adding scathingly, “And then used _me_ to bring you back.”

 

She still had nightmares about it; about him mauling her on the lacrosse field, claws and teeth sinking into her flesh, the stench of her blood filling the air and Stiles’ voice calling out to her before she lost consciousness. She still had nightmares about Peter invading her mind, one minute flipping desks and threatening her, and the next seducing her. Lydia was never certain how much of it was real and how much was a hallucination; at the time she’d simply thought she was going insane, and after she hadn’t wanted to think about it at all. The less she saw of Peter, the better, but Peter always seemed to find opportunities to worm his way into her life, one way or another.

 

She hated him.

 

“We’re all works in progress.” He said glibly, before looking at her once more. “But I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to my side of the story. We may share a connection but that only runs so deep. So why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me exactly why you’re here, Lydia? It’s certainly not because you care for my wellbeing.”

 

At least he knew where he stood.

 

“I need your help.”

 

“Of course you do, sweetheart.” He said, eyes glinting knowingly. “But why should I help you?”

 

“Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure you rot in here for the rest of your life.” Lydia spat.

 

Peter arched a brow. “Was that not the plan when you left me here?”

 

“Plans change.” The strawberry-blonde replied. “If you agree to help, you’ll be out of here tonight. With me.”

 

The Beta eyed her suspiciously.

 

“They’re not going to let me simply walk out of here. After all, I’m a threat to society.” He said, completely blasé about it.

 

Lydia smirked. “And Eichen House is a corrupt institution not above accepting monetary bribes.”

 

In an instant, Peter’s nonchalant demeanor cracked. He stared at her with something akin to wonder.

 

“You never cease to amaze me.”

 

“Too bad I can’t say the same for you.” She said with a sugary sweet smile.

 

And just as quickly as it came, it was gone.

 

“I would like to remind you that _you_ came here begging for _my_ help.”

 

“I don’t beg. I negotiate.”

 

“Call it what you will.” He shrugged.

 

Lydia licked her lips. “So… do we have a deal?”

 

Peter let out a dramatic sigh.

 

“I suppose it’s better than being cooped up in here. Shall we?” He started toward her, probably more than a little eager to leave, but stopped short when Lydia raised a hand.

 

“First, I need to know if… if the name Stiles Stilinski means anything to you.” There was a slight tremor in her voice that she was sure Peter noticed, but thankfully didn’t remark on. Instead he just pinned her with a quizzical glance.

 

“Is that a trick question or?” He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was waiting for the punch line.

 

“So you recognize it?” Relief blossomed in her chest; it felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

 

Peter scoffed, rolling his eyes.

 

“Of course I recog…” he trailed off with a frown. “Why do you ask?”

 

“Stiles is gone.” She informed him. “I don’t mean that he ran away or was kidnapped by some monster-of-the-week. I mean _gone_. Vanished. As in there is no trace that he was ever here – that he ever existed at all. And no one remembers him. It’s like their memories have been wiped or… altered, somehow. But I think Stiles knew something was going to happen – or something _was_.” She thought back to what he’d told her, about the sleepwalking and hallucinations.

 

Scott had once told her that Stiles’ mother had suffered from Frontotemporal dementia, and if they lived anywhere else, Lydia might have written his symptoms off as something medical. But they didn’t. They lived in Beacon Hills. Their town was a literal _beacon_ for supernatural activity, which was why Lydia was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that whatever had been going on with Stiles before he disappeared, was directly related to what was happening now.

 

She glanced over at Peter and watched him closely as he absorbed what she’d just divulged, trying to gauge his reaction.

 

“Does any of that sound familiar?” She hated how hopeful she sounded.

 

“Possibly.” He said after a long pause, lifting his gaze. “Tell me, Lydia… what do you know about Faeries?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Peter. He’s basically my problematic fave. Also, I’ve always enjoyed the Pydia dynamic. I think they have an interesting relationship and part of what inspired this fic came from my desire to explore it.


	5. The Fair Folk (Part 1)

Lydia couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

 

After signing Peter’s release papers and obtaining his belongings (which, fortunately, wasn’t much – just whatever he’d had on him when he was left there) they were on their way, though Lydia’s heart didn’t stop racing until long after the building disappeared from sight; until she was sure no one was going to come after them. Peter didn’t comment, although that may have been because he was too busy inspecting his hair in the mirror.

 

They eventually stopped at a dingy, 24-hour diner located just on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, to grab a bite to eat. The smell of burnt coffee and greasy food permeated the air, assaulting her nose, but Lydia was starving. It was late, so they were the only ones there with the exception of the possibly homeless man passed out near the window.

 

Their waitress was a busty woman in her forties or fifties who, judging from her hair and makeup, was still living in the ‘80s. She was also overly attentive, shamelessly flirting with her “father” and Peter, being the narcissist he was, reveled in the attention, all playful winks and charming smiles. By the fifth time the waitress came by to refill their drinks (with not one, not two, but _three_ buttons of her blouse undone, giving them more than an eyeful of cleavage) Lydia didn’t even bother trying to hide her disgust.

 

“Green really isn’t your color, sweetheart.” Peter said smugly, once the waitress was out of earshot.

 

“You think I’m jealous?” She asked incredulously.

 

Peter just smirked and took a slow sip of his tea. “You tell me.”

 

“You realize you’re old enough to be my dad.” Technically, he _was_ a dad, though thankfully not hers. Not that her actual father was much better, but still, she didn’t envy Malia. Pitied, yes – envied, not so much.

 

“Some girls like that in a man. With maturity comes… experience.”

 

And _that_ was more information than she needed to hear. Lydia promptly set her fork down and pushed her plate away, appetite officially gone. The last thing she wanted to think about was Peter’s sex life.

 

“So. Faeries.” She said, trying to steer the conversation back to what mattered. “You think _Faeries_ took Stiles.”

 

“Certainly not the kind you’re thinking of. Forget whatever notions Disney planted in your head because real Faeries are mischievous tricksters at best and downright malevolent at worst.”

 

“Have you ever met one?” Lydia asked.

 

Peter shook his head. “Not me, but my sister encountered one on our land once, a few years before the fire.”

 

“And you’re sure it’s Faeries?”

 

“Given what you told me, I think it’s very likely.” Peter said grimly. “Unfortunately, they’re elusive creatures. They prefer to stay hidden and there have been so few eyewitness accounts that our knowledge of them is still quite limited. But we _do_ know that they tend to abduct children, sometimes replacing them with their own.”

 

“Like a Changeling?”

 

Peter paused, looking genuinely impressed. Lydia rolled her eyes. She wasn’t _completely_ naïve. He nodded, continuing.

 

“Exactly, and though children are their primary target, I’ve also heard tales of pregnant women being lured away.”

 

Lydia furrowed her brow. “But Stiles isn’t a woman or a child so why take him?”

 

“Breeding purposes, perhaps.” He said, all too casually.

 

“ _What_?” She cried.

 

“He’s young, virile, and his best friend is a True Alpha… he’s practically a walking target.”

 

The thought of Stiles being used – being used like _that_ , especially – made Lydia sick to her stomach.

 

“And fixing everyone’s memories? What does that accomplish?” She pressed.

 

“To evade suspicion. Cover their tracks.” Peter replied matter-of-factly. “When a person goes missing – especially the Sheriff’s own son – people are bound to notice. Amber alerts are issued, search parties are formed, and in a place like Beacon Hills that’s bound to draw some unwanted attention, particularly from Hunters. And no one likes a witch hunt.”

 

“Then why didn’t it work on me?” She asked. “Or you?”

 

“Believe it or not, I actually had nothing to do with this.” He pointedly ignored the skeptical look she shot him. “Really, Lydia. What sort of man do you take me for?”

 

“A manipulative psychopath.” She answered without a beat.

 

“ _Former_ psychopath.” Peter corrected. “However, kidnapping Stiles for some nefarious purpose is hardly in my best interest. Also, need I remind you that I was locked up and otherwise incapacitated?”

 

“And two years ago you were a supposed catatonic burn victim.” She reminded him.

 

Peter stared at her, expression blank but the tightness in his jaw was an obvious indicator that her lack of trust bothered him.

 

Whatever. He only had himself to blame for that.

 

“Did you know that the wards around Eichen House were designed not just to keep monsters like me in, but any supernatural influences _out_?” As another piece of the puzzle fit together in her mind, Peter continued. “If I had to guess, that’s the reason I wasn’t affected. I suppose it’s rather fortunate for you that I wasn’t out and about, otherwise you would be back at square one. As for why you remember… well, you _are_ a Banshee.”

 

“What does that have to do with it?”

 

“Banshees, Faeries, Nymphs, the Wild Hunt… like Shifters, they’re all cut from a similar cloth. It could be that that connection, being that intertwined, is what spared you.” He deduced. “Of course, that’s just a theory.”

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

Something was amiss.

 

He could feel it in the air, a sudden shift in equilibrium that he couldn’t explain.

 

The first sign presented itself as soon as he stepped through the clinic doors; pets that had been fine the night before were now restless and agitated, growling and hissing and attempting to claw their way out of their respective cages. Animals were far more in tune with nature than the average human and if there had been some kind of shift, some abnormality, they would be the first to pick up on it.

 

He kept that in mind as he went about his day, but it wasn’t until later that evening, when he found himself in the Preserve, standing where the Hale house once stood, that another sign fell into his lap. The burnt remnants had been torn down but the lot was far from barren. In the very centre, a circle of mushrooms stood out amidst dead grass. He approached cautiously, slipping on a pair of latex gloves, and knelt down to get a better look. Plucking one of the toadstools from the ground, he examined it closely, curiously.

 

Light footsteps alerted him to a second presence. Lifting his gaze, he was met with Marin’s inquisitive stare.

 

“A Faerie Ring?” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

 

Alan grimaced, nodding before slowly rising to his feet.

 

“It would seem that we have some unwanted guests.”

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

Lydia was more than a little irritated as she was made to sit in her car, elbow propped up against the window sill and foot tapping impatiently. They were at Peter’s condo because the werewolf had insisted on changing into something more “suitable” – not that it mattered. She doubted Stiles would care _what_ they looked like when they came to rescue them so long as they did.

 

How Peter still had condo was a mystery to her. Who was paying his rent while he was incarcerated? She couldn’t imagine Derek or Cora burdening themselves with such a task. Whatever affection they’d once felt for their uncle was long gone at this point.

 

Lydia sighed, taking out her phone. She had several missed calls from Scott and even a few from Jordan. She ignored them, scrolling through her list of contacts until a familiar name jumped out at her. She swallowed, her thumb hovering, hesitating before hitting it.

 

Unsurprisingly, it went straight to voicemail.

 

“Hey, it’s me.” She opened up with, her voice raspy, like she was on the verge of tears. She wasn’t far from it. “I know I haven’t called in a while and I know you’re probably busy but we could really use your help right now.” She paused, licking her lips. “ _I_ could really use your help right now. Please just… call me back when you get this. Bye.”

 

She hung up and let out a shuddery breath, blinking back tears.

 

At long last, Peter emerged, face clean-shaven and hair combed back, dressed to the nines and reeking of expensive cologne. Sliding into the passenger’s seat beside her, he tossed her a Macy’s bag.

 

“For you.”

 

Lydia arched a suspicious brow before peeking inside. Rifling through it, she pulled out a red cocktail dress.

 

“Why do you have women’s clothes?” She deadpanned.

 

“It _was_ a birthday gift for Cora, and you two are roughly the same size so...” Peter explained, giving her a onceover.

 

“And why would I want this?”

 

“Because we’re going out tonight and need to look the part.”

 

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “Stiles is _missing_.”

 

“I haven’t forgotten.” Peter said dryly.

 

“You’re supposed to be helping me find him!” She hissed.

 

“I _am_.” He snapped, before gesturing to the wheel. “Drive. I’ll tell you where to go.”

 

Lydia glared at him for what seemed like an eternity before reluctantly starting the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said before, I had the story planned out and outline written before the trailer dropped so while the concept of Stiles going missing and being forgotten is the same... that’s basically it. Although I did do a little shout out so. There’s that.
> 
> Not much else to say about this chapter other than... hopefully you enjoyed it?
> 
> Please REVIEW and let me know what you think!


	6. The Fair Folk (Part 2)

Lydia wasn’t returning his calls.

 

Tossing his phone aside and flopping back onto his bed, Scott sighed and stared up at the ceiling with a frown. He went over the events that had transpired earlier that day, trying to make sense of it all. He knew Lydia wasn’t just messing with him – that wasn’t her style – but even if she had been, her heartbeat would’ve given her away. It had certainly been frantic, but there was no doubt in his mind that she’d been telling the truth.

 

Or, at least, believed she was.

 

“Stiles.” He murmured, testing the name. He tried to familiarize himself with it but it felt foreign on his tongue.

 

Surely he would remember a name like that.

 

Closing his eyes, he replayed Lydia’s words and racked his brain only to come up short. Shoulders slumping in defeat, Scott rolled over and drifted off to sleep.

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

_The station is bustling with activity. Phones ring off the hook with 911 calls as men and women in uniform run around frantically, trying to delegate. Amidst all the chaos, seven-year-old Scott goes mostly unnoticed, and sits anxiously as he waits for his mom to finish talking to a deputy in the other room._

_Swinging his feet back and forth, he fiddles with the inhaler in his hands and watches the scene unfold, occasionally picking up on words like “fire” and “Hale” but mostly tuning it out. For the umpteenth time that hour, he twists his body around so he can look through the window. He sees his mom pacing, eyes red and puffy from crying as she gives her report, but he can’t hear what she’s saying._

_He doesn’t need to._

_“Hi.” A small voice grabs Scott’s attention, dragging it from his mom and the deputy and to a boy around his age, standing in front of him._

_He’s a little shorter than Scott, paler, with large brown eyes too big for his face._

_“Hi…” He answers uncertainly, after glancing around to make sure the boy is, in fact, talking to_ him _._

_The boy stares, unblinkingly, for a moment, as if he’s trying to see into his soul._

_“Are you in trouble?” He asks finally._

_“No!” Scott says quickly, only to falter. “I don’t know.”_

_“My dad’s a cop. He catches the bad guys.” The boy informs him proudly. He points to the window behind Scott. “That’s him in there, talking to that lady.”_

_Scott shifts nervously. “That’s my mom.”_

_“Is_ she _in trouble?” The boy inquires, eyes getting bigger. “Did she break the law?”_

_“No.” At least, he doesn’t think so. He remembers hearing his parents fighting in the kitchen but can’t remember why. Everything happened so fast; it’s all a blur in his head._

_“Aw.” The boy pouts and looks genuinely disappointed, which isn’t the reaction Scott is expecting. He’s not sure if he should apologize or not._

_“What’s your name?” He asks instead._

_“What’s_ your _name?”_  
  


_“I asked you first.”_

_“So?” The boy challenges._

_“So –” Unable to come up with an argument, Scott relents. “Scott.”_

_“Scott.” The boy echoes, as if committing it to memory, before changing the subject. “Who’s your favorite superhero?”_

_Scott takes a moment to think. In truth, he doesn’t know of many superheroes – his parents, mostly his dad, don’t let him watch cartoons very often – but when he catches a glimpse of the logo on the boy’s shirt, and recognizes it, that’s the one he goes with._

_“I like Batman.”_

_The boy’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree, his face splitting into a wide grin, and Scott knows right then and there that he’s answered correctly._

_“Me too. Batman’s the best.” The boy declares. “Do you wanna be my friend?”_

_Scott’s heart skips a beat. He’s never really had a friend; all the kids on his block are much older than him and never want to play. He can barely contain his excitement. “Okay!”_

_“Cool.” The boy beams at him before settling into the chair beside his. He sticks out his hand, and Scott instinctively takes it. “My name’s Mieczysław, by the way.”_

_Scott can’t help but grin. “That’s a funny name.”_

_“Yeah, it is.” The boy, Mieczysław, agrees, returning the grin. “But if you want, you can just call me St–”_

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

“— iles!”

 

Scott awoke with a start, drenched in a cold sweat, his eyes wide and blazing red. He was partially shifted, sheets clutched in his clawed grip, but he barely registered the damage. It was if a dam had broken in his mind, because suddenly he was bombarded with flashes –

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

_“Are we seriously doing this?”_

_“You’re the one always bitching that nothing ever happens in this town.”_

 

 

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

_“Dude, you’ve still got me.”_

_“I had you before.”_

_“Yeah, and you still got me.”_

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

_“It all started that night… the night I got bitten. You remember the way it was before that? You and me. We were… we were nothing. We weren’t popular, we weren’t good at lacrosse… we weren’t important. We were no one. Maybe I should just be no one again. No one at all.”_

_“Scott, just listen to me, okay? You’re not no one. You’re someone. Scott, you’re my best friend, okay? And I need you. Scott… you’re my brother. Alright, so… if you’re gonna do this then… I think you’re just gonna have to take me with you.”_

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

_“It’s called Fronotemporal Dementia. Areas of your brain start to shrink. It’s what my mother had. It’s the only form of Dementia that can hit teenagers, and there’s no cure.”_

_“Stiles, if you have it… we’ll do something._ I’ll _do something.”_

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

Memories of Stiles, his best friend, his _brother_ came flooding back in an instant – everything, good and bad, from their first encounter to the night he was bitten by Peter to their brief falling out. It was overwhelming and by the time it ended, he was curled up next to his bed, clutching his head.

 

When he finally regained his composure, Scott jumped to his feet, scrambling to get dressed. Grabbing his phone, he was in the process of pushing open the window when his door swung open.

 

“Scott?” His mother asked groggily, flicking on the light. “What’s going on?”

 

“There’s no time – I have to talk to Lydia!” He said urgently.

 

With that, he leapt to the ground below and took off down the street.

 

_I’m coming, Stiles._

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

The drive was mostly quiet, save for when Peter was giving her directions. Lydia didn’t mind; the less she had to talk to Peter, the less opportunities he had to play mind games with her. Sure, he was helping her now, but he’d helped them before – with the Darach and the Alpha Pack and the Nogitsune. Peter helped _just_ enough to get them to trust him, to forget that he’d once been their enemy – that he’d once gone on a revenge spree with little thought to who would get caught in the crossfire, or that he’d once terrorized her to the point of near insanity and manipulated her into resurrecting him – and as soon as they let their guards down, he tried to kill Scott. So, no, she wasn’t going to delude herself into thinking that Peter wasn’t secretly plotting something as he aided her on her quest to find Stiles. For all she knew, he was leading her on a wild goose chase.

 

She certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

 

“Stop. Pull in here.”

 

Lydia did as instructed, driving into an empty lot and leaning forward to look at the seemingly abandoned factory.

 

“What are we doing here?” She asked.

 

“Gathering intel.” Peter replied, adjusting his coat. He spared a quick glance at the Macy’s bag nestled at her side. “You should change.”

 

“Excuse me? I’m not changing in front of you.”

 

Peter had the audacity to actually roll his eyes – as if it were somehow unreasonable to _not_ want to undress in front of him. Lydia bit back the humorless laugh that threatened to escape.

 

“Well?” She prodded when he remained seated. She made a ‘shoo’-ing motion. “Out. And turn around. If I catch you looking, I’ll scream until your ears bleed.”

 

He let out a dramatic sigh but obliged, stepping out of the car. Lydia kept her eyes trained on his back as she stripped out of her regular clothes and shimmied into the satin number. Adjusted for length, the dress fell just above the knee and hugged her body in all the right places, accentuating her curves without revealing too much. It was sexy, but in a conservative kind of way, and probably cost a pretty penny. Letting her hair down, Lydia combed her fingers through it until it was stylishly disheveled before doing a quick lipstick touchup.

 

“Beautiful.” Peter murmured she finally joined his side. He made a show of circling her, examining the dress appraisingly, as if she were a work of art. “You look stunning in red. Has anyone ever told you?”

 

She let out a humorless laugh, because of _course_ Peter favor the color red. It probably reminded him of blood, appealing to some primal instinct deep inside.

 

He held out an arm, which Lydia reluctantly took, and together they made their way over to the entrance of the factory. The Bouncer that greeted them was a large, behemoth of man who barely acknowledged them before granting them entry. She shrugged it off; she’d been sneaking into clubs and bars since she was fourteen, back when Danny made them all fake I.Ds. Beacon Hills was a small town, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, but no one was going to question the star lacrosse player with money to flaunt or his equally underage entourage of privileged rich kids with nothing better to do.

 

Inside, they were met with blaring music, strobe lights and even a fog machine.

 

“Where are we?” She asked.

 

She’d never been to this place before. She wasn’t even sure she’d ever heard of it.

 

“Let’s just say it’s a rather… exclusive club.” Peter told her, hand resting on the small of her back as he led her through the throngs of bodies melding together on the dance floor. “For people like us.”

 

“Like us?” Lydia furrowed her brow.

 

“Yes, _us_.” He replied, and left it at that. “I’m going to ask around, see what I can find out. Try to blend in.”

 

With that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Lydia alone.

 

Walking up to the bar, she leaned back against it and glanced around, taking in her surroundings. Half-naked bodies glistened under flashing lights as they danced to the beat, the smell of sweat and alcohol hanging thick in the air. She felt woefully overdressed and very out of place. If blending in had been Peter’s plan, they certainly weren’t doing a good job. A high-end cocktail party this was _not_.

 

She sighed and turned around.

 

“I’ll have a Cosmopolitan.” She told the bartender, who didn’t even bat an eye.

 

She downed it in seconds before promptly ordering another.

 

“Rough night?” A voice beside her asked.

 

Lydia snorted into her drink. “Understatement of the _year_.”

 

Going on two.

 

She almost longed for the simplicity that was her life before… well, everything.

 

“Want to talk about it?”

 

Lydia smiled tightly. “Unless you’re a licensed therapist, then no.”

 

“Worried about your friend?”

 

Lydia froze.

 

“What did you say?” She whispered, finally turning to look at the boy beside her in disbelief.

 

He was around her age, maybe a few years older, and very… pretty, if she had to be honest with herself. It was a weird word to associate with a boy, but it was the only one that came to mind.

 

“The man you came in with.” He clarified, seemingly unperturbed by her reaction. “Is he your boyfriend? Lover?”

 

Lydia made a face, stomach turning at the thought. “Ugh, neither. He’s my –” she stopped. What _was_ Peter? An acquaintance? A sometimes-ally? “Uncle.” She blurted finally.

 

The boy laughed. “You two are close, then?”

 

Well, Peter _had_ taken up residence in her head for about a month, and she _had_ brought him back from the dead so… that was one way of looking at it.

 

“You could say that.” She said.

 

“So if I asked you to dance…”

 

“I’m not really in a dancing mood.” She was too worried – about Stiles and where he could possibly be, about Peter’s true intentions, about how she was going to undo whatever had been done… _could_ it be reversed? Or would Stiles’ memory, his very existence, be wiped from everyone’s minds permanently?

 

Those were just a few of the thoughts gnawing away at her as the night dragged on.

 

“At least let me buy you a drink.” The boy insisted.

 

He was persistent. Lydia would give him that. It would almost be charming if it wasn’t so… not.

 

“I think I’ll pass.” She said, before turning her attention to the dance floor.

 

The boy lingered a little while longer before finally taking the hint and slinking off. Lips pressed to the rip of her glass, Lydia scanned the crowd before her, keeping her eyes peeled for… something. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be doing or looking for while Peter “gathered intel” or whatever it was he was up to. How did he even know about this place? _She_ didn’t even know about it and, as a rule, Lydia made it her job to know where all the hot spots were. Or she used to, back when being popular was at the forefront of her priorities. Then again, Peter had claimed it was exclusive for “people like them” – had he meant of the supernatural variety?

 

Before Lydia could come up with an answer, a familiar face brought her thought process to a screeching halt. Squinting, she could just barely make out the red hoodie – the same one Stiles had been wearing the last time she’d seen him – from across the room but… there was no mistaking it. Same height, same stature, same brown hair and pale skin – it was Stiles. And he was looking right at her.

 

“Stiles?” She said loudly, but the music drowned out her voice.

 

She had to get closer.

 

Had to make sure it wasn’t just her mind playing tricks on her.

 

Abandoning the bar and her drink, Lydia pushed her way through the crowd occupying the dance floor, trying not to lose sight of him all the while. More than once, she nearly got swept up against gyrating couples but eventually she made it past the wall of bodies.

 

Only to see Stiles duck out the back door.

 

She followed, shouting after him, but it was like he didn’t hear her. Or was ignoring her. She picked up her pace, but Stiles remained out of reach. They zig-zagged down and around a number of hallways until finally she caught up with him outside. He’d reached a dead end and couldn’t run from her anymore.

 

He stood with his back facing her.

 

“Stiles?” She asked slowly, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder. “Stiles, look at me.”

 

After a long, drawn out moment, he did.

 

“Oh, hey.”

 

“ _Hey_? That’s all you have to say? _Hey_? Do you have any idea how freaked out I’ve been? Was this your idea of a fucking joke? To make me think you just _disappeared_ , that everyone forgot you?” She was shouting, angry tears blurring her vision as she clenched her fists, more tempted than ever to just _hit_ him for doing this to her – for making her sick with worry, for making her seek out _Peter_ of all people for help, for –”

 

She would have continued, but his lips got in the way.

 

A confused noise got trapped in her throat as her brain struggled to process what was happening: Stiles was kissing her. Taken aback, Lydia could only stand there, too stunned to move much less properly respond. Sure, she’d known for years how he’d felt about her, or used to – it wasn’t as if Stiles had made an effort to hide his crush – but the boldest thing he’d ever done was demanding she dance with him. Even the last time they’d kissed, it had only been to stop his panic attack. She had done it on sheer impulse, and they had never talked about it after. So for him to kiss her now, completely out of the blue, was… unexpected.

 

Something was off, but she couldn’t quite place it, and the longer he kissed her the less she cared. It wasn’t long before the initial shock and confusion wore off, and Lydia found herself melting into the kiss, throwing all caution into the wind and giving into the feelings she’d been trying so hard and so long to suppress. Arms winding around his neck, she pressed herself against him and deepened the kiss, never wanting to stop.

 

By the time they finally parted, Lydia was completely breathless, lips swollen and mind hazy as she gazed up at him.

 

Beneath the backdrop of the moon, he seemed to practically glow. The word ‘beautiful’ came to mind, which was a word she never thought she’d use to describe _Stiles Stilinski_ of all people.

 

Lids fluttering, she was about to lean in for another kiss when he was suddenly yanked back and thrown several feet away, crashing into a pile of garbage bags.

 

“Are you _insane_?” She cried, glaring at the werewolf in question.

 

But Peter wasn’t looking at her. Instead he stared ahead, eyes trained on Stiles as the teen struggled to his feet.

 

“I think we both know the answer to that.” He said calmly, arm shooting out to block her when she took a step forward.

 

Lydia ignored the arm, shoving it out of the way as she made her way over to Stiles to help him. She came to an abrupt stop when he glanced up, green eyes locking on hers. Lydia’s heart stopped, her blood running cold.

 

Stiles didn’t have green eyes.

 

She drew back.

 

Stiles – or rather, not-Stiles – cocked his head, the corner of his mouth twitching.

 

“What a shame. I almost had you, too.” He said. Dropping the illusion, he swiped a hand over his face, and Lydia sucked in a sharp breath when she found herself staring at the boy from earlier, the one that had been flirting with her at the bar. He winked at her before looking over her shoulder at Peter. “How did you know?”

 

Peter scoffed. “Please. I’ve known Stiles for years. He has a very _particular_ scent.”

 

“You… you’re one of them.” Lydia said, putting the pieces together. “You’re a Faerie.”

 

“Astute observation, little Banshee.”

 

“What did you do with Stiles?” She demanded, balling her fists.

 

“Me? I did nothing. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.” The boy answered in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what she was talking about.

 

“You took him! You erased everyone’s memories –”

 

“ _I_ did no such thing.” The boy, the Faerie, told her.

 

“But you’ve seen him. You know who he is.” Lydia deduced. “ _Where_ he is.”

 

“I might.”

 

“Tell me!”

 

Much to her frustration, the Faerie simply grinned. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”

 

Behind her, she heard Peter let out an exasperated sigh.

 

“This is getting us nowhere.” He muttered, brushing past her and flicking his claws out as he approached the Faerie. “Time for a different method.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. Life’s been keeping me busy between a wedding, a baby shower and work. And also a Pydia oneshot. So here’s an extra long chapter to make up for it!
> 
> Please leave a COMMENT and let me know what you think!


	7. Fragments

_Stilinski Residence, 1996_

 

“And… done.” Paintbrush still in hand, John Stilinski took a step back to examine his work.

 

It was an older crib they’d stumbled across at a garage sale but still in great condition. All it had really needed was a new layer of paint and voila! Good as new. Not to mention half of the cost of a store-bought crib. John glanced around the tiny room, taking in the light blue walls with teddy bear trim. The nursery was just about finished; all it needed was a baby to fill it. Satisfied with a job well done, John set the brush and paint can aside and cracked open the window, letting the space air out.

 

He found his wife in the living room, curled up on the sofa with a hand on her belly, only half invested in whatever was on TV.

 

“How are my two favorite people in the world?” He asked, leaning against the threshold.

 

“Your son is a menace, John.” Claudia huffed, glaring accusingly at her stomach.

 

John laughed. “ _My_ son, huh?”

 

“Clearly he gets his restlessness from you, Mister _Deputy_.” Claudia said. “We’re definitely going to need that baby gate. I have a feeling this is just a warm up. Once he learns how to walk…” she shuddered in horror.

 

“We could just get him a leash.” John quipped.

 

Claudia’s glare intensified.

 

“He’s not a _dog_ , John.”

 

John held up his hands in surrender.

 

“I know, I know.” He made his way over and sat down next to her, draping an arm over her shoulders and kissing her cheek. “Speaking of our son… have you decided on a name?” He’d long since lost count of how many they’d looked at and considered. All had sounded either too plain or too pretentious. None of them felt _right_.

 

“Yes.” Claudia replied. “Mieczysław.”

 

“Bless you?”

 

“It’s Polish.” His wife explained, before adding quietly. “It was my dad’s name.”

 

Claudia didn’t talk about her father often. All John really knew about the man was that he’d died fairly young, sometime in his mid-thirties from some form of dementia. He’d never pressed because he didn’t like to see her sad.

 

Claudia studied his expression for a moment. “We can always name him something else.”

 

“What? No, it’s… it’s perfect.” John assured her.

 

His wife beamed, perking up instantly. “Good. Because I think _he_ agrees.”

 

Taking his free hand, she placed it flat on her belly so he could feel the baby – their _son_ – moving beneath the surface, anxious to get out.

 

_Hurry up, kiddo. Your Mommy and Daddy can’t wait to meet you._

 

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

_Present_

 

 

 

 

As Peter advanced on the Faerie, the latter didn’t budge. Even as his fangs dropped and eyes flashed, his features contorting into something more beast than man, the Faerie remained unfazed, if not amused. Lydia fumed at his indifference, digging her nails into her palms as she observed the exchange.

 

“Peter.” She called out sternly, _warningly_. “He’s our only lead.”

 

The Faerie arched his brows and smirked when the werewolf paused, as if considering her words.

 

“I’m going to give you one chance to tell us where he is.” Peter began, holding up a clawed finger. “ _One_. Or I’m going to rip out your entrails.”

 

“Big words for an Omega.”

 

Before Lydia could react, Peter had the Faerie by the throat and slammed him against the concrete wall with so much force that the wall concaved from impact. When the Faerie simply grinned, Peter’s grip tightened around the creature’s neck and Lydia inhaled sharply, starting forward only to freeze when Peter finally dug his claws into the Fae’s flesh and tore. Blood sprayed forth, splattering across the wall and Peter’s face but the werewolf either didn’t register it or didn’t _care_ as he released the Faerie and let it crumple to the ground in a lifeless heap.

 

Lydia stared in horror.

 

“Why did you _do that_?” She cried, throwing her hands up in frustration as she marched over. “He _knew_ where Stiles was! You just murdered the only person who might have been able to tell us where to find –”

 

A chuckle made her aware of the presence behind her, an inhumanly smooth hand sliding around her throat.

 

“I wouldn’t say that.” The Faerie drawled next to her ear, and she watched as the body – or what she thought had been the body – dissolve, until all that was left was a wooden figurine.

 

Another illusion.

 

A growl drew her attention back to Peter, who had turned to face them, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his piercing gaze was focused on her captor, who made a ‘tut-tut’ noise when the werewolf snarled and took a step toward them. She was surprised when she felt talon-like nails press into her skin – not hard enough to draw blood, but enough for her to worry.

 

“I wouldn’t do anything to rash if I were you, or the little Banshee might lose the only weapon she has.” The Faerie warned.

 

“Let. Her. Go.”

 

“Come, now. You’re hardly in a position to be making demands.” The Faerie reminded him.

 

“What are you going to do?” Lydia whispered.

 

“Nothing we haven’t already done. Just a few… alterations.” The Faerie tapped a finger against her temple. “Right here. You won’t even know what you’re missing. I’ve always found that ignorance truly is bliss, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Lydia shook her head. “ _Why_? Why take Stiles? Why erase everyone’s memories? What could you possibly gain by doing this?”

 

“Lydia…” Peter started, but stopped when she looked at him, locking her eyes on his.

 

Lydia held his gaze, trying to convey what she was thinking without words. Peter cocked his head to the side, jaw tightening, but he stayed where he was, icy stare sliding from hers to the Fae behind her. She could see his fingers twitching as he struggled to keep himself in check but before she could dwell on that, the Fae let out a contemplative hum, breath fanning against her hair.

 

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if I told you. After all, it’s not as if it will matter in a few minutes.” He said at last, and she didn’t have to see his face to know he was grinning. She curled her fingers, wanting nothing more than to punch his stupid, smiling face in. “Let’s just say your friend… he’s very important to us.”

 

 _He’s important to **us**!_ Lydia wanted to scream, but she kept calm and instead asked, “What do you mean?”

 

The Faerie chuckled.

 

“Well, if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He said. “But I will give you one hint: his sacrifice will not be for naught.”

 

Lydia’s stomach bottomed out.

 

“Sacrifice?” She repeated, hoping she’d heard wrong.

 

“Mmmhmm.” The Fae confirmed. “But don’t you worry. He won’t feel a thing. It will be just like going to sleep – and you won’t remember him, so it’s a win-win for all of us.”

 

“Except for Stiles.” Peter interjected coolly. “Tell me, how _does_ Stiles feel about being your little sacrificial lamb?” When the Faerie didn’t respond, he continued. “Personally, I find the whole ‘human sacrifice’ thing a little too déjà vu. In fact, just last year we had a Darach going around doing the same thing. Would you like to know what happened to her?” He raised a clawed hand, curling his fingers and smirking. “As you might imagine, it didn’t end well for her.”

 

Lydia stared at Peter in stunned silence, taken aback by his casual confession. They had all wondered where Jennifer had wandered off to after she’d escaped Scott and Derek, and now they had an answer. It didn’t necessarily surprise her, but it did raise some questions that she’d have to stew over later, since a confrontation with Peter would most likely only result in half-truths. But for now, Stiles was her first priority.

 

“You talk a big talk for a wolf without a pack.” The Faerie’s voice, directed at Peter, dragged Lydia from her reverie.

 

Peter narrowed his eyes.

 

“Now, where were we?”

 

Lydia didn’t give the Faerie a chance to finish. Elbowing him in the gut, she dropped to a crouch as soon as he withdrew his hand, and thrust her foot back, kicking his legs out from under him. Peter must have anticipated this, must have heard the spike in her pulse because he lunged forward as soon as she hit the ground.

 

She ducked to avoid being caught in the crossfire, rolling away and back up onto her feet before whipping around. Peter and the Faerie moved in a blur as they exchanged blows; Peter was strong for someone who had been locked up and heavily medicated with Wolfsbane for months but he definitely wasn’t at his peak strength and the Faerie was faster, dodging each slash of claws with ease.

 

Lydia kept her eyes trained on them while she listened around – the Faerie had tricked them with an illusion twice already, but she wasn’t going to fall for it again.

 

It wasn’t until she saw Peter flounder, nearly losing his footing, that she realized what was happening. The Faerie wasn’t fighting back – he was trying to wear Peter out, and if Peter’s lagging was any indication, he was succeeding.

 

Suddenly a blast of energy sent the werewolf through the air and crashing to the ground beside her.

 

“Damn it…” He growled, struggling to sit up. He winced in pain, hand coming down to cover the gaping hole in his stomach.

 

Lydia sucked in a sharp breath.

 

“Can you still fight? Are you o –” she caught herself in time but it was too late.

 

Peter somehow managed to smirk through his discomfort. “Is that concern I’m hearing? Why, Lydia, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

 

“Shut up.” She eyed the wound warily. “Why aren’t you healing?”

 

“I am. Just not fast enough.” He glared ahead. “He shouldn’t be able to do that. Faeries generally rely on trickery and manipulation. This one fights more like a Druid.”

 

“Or a Darach. Like Ms Blake.” Lydia observed, recalling what Jennifer had been able to do.

 

“You’re fighting a losing battle.” The Faerie called out, interrupting their conversation. He took a step forward, mischievous smile never once leaving his face. “Even if you manage to kill me, you’ve already lost. The one you call Stiles is gone.”

 

“You’re wrong!” A new voice chimed from above, but Lydia didn’t need to look to see who it belonged to. She’d recognize her Alpha’s voice anywhere, and when Scott landed in front of them, between her and Peter and the Faerie, eyes blazing red, she felt a wave of relief wash over her.

 

“Scott,” she croaked, “they have him. Faeries. They took Stiles and altered everyone’s memories so no one would remember.”

 

“I know.” Scott said over his shoulder. “Don’t worry.”

 

She was about to ask _how_ when Peter spoke up. “As touching as this is, perhaps we can save the heart-to-heart until _after_ the fight?”

 

“Another werewolf.” The Faerie remarked.

 

“An Alpha.” Lydia corrected proudly. “A True Alpha.”

 

“Regardless, you still won’t be able to hurt me.”

 

“Probably not.” Scott conceded. “But I know something that can.”

 

Out of her peripheral, she saw Dr. Deaton emerge from the shadows and toss something into the air. Mountain Ash, she realized when it fell around the Faerie in a perfect circle, trapping him. For the first time that night, the Faerie’s grin faltered as he reached out, only to touch the barrier and recoil in pain. He paled, clutching his hand to his chest and staring at Deaton like he’d grown an extra head. Deaton’s expression remained as passive as always.

 

“What is this?” The Faerie hissed.

 

“Sorbus aucuparia.”

 

“Mountain Ash.” The creature looked around. “But how…”

 

“Of course, regular Mountain Ash would have very little effect, but infused with _iron_ …” the vet tapered off, allowing his words to sink in.

 

The Faerie dropped to his knees, breathing heavily, skin glistening with sweat as the iron-infused Mountain Ash began to take effect. As this was happening, Lydia could feel a familiar sensation beginning to build inside her, starting from her core and steadily working its way up her chest and to her throat. She pressed her lips together, trying to hold it back, fighting it, until her entire body was shaking and her ears were ringing with so many whispers bombarding her until finally, amidst the cacophony inside her head, Scott’s voice broke through.

 

“Lydia, _scream_.”

 

So she did.

 

Opening her mouth, Lydia let out an ear-piercing wail so powerful that the windows above them shattered, causing shards of glass to rain down. In an effort to minimize the damage, she reined it in in and focused all of her attention on the now weakened Faerie.

 

By the time her scream finally died, the Faerie lay dead in the circle, a pool of blood around his head from where his eardrums had ruptured.

 

Glancing around to survey the destruction, she was relieved to find that apart from the windows and streetlights, she hadn’t accidentally injured Scott or Deaton or even Peter in the process. Catching Scott’s gaze, she managed to crack a small smile before exhaustion hit her like a freight train.

 

Her body swayed. It occurred to her that she was going to faint, but instead of hitting the ground when her knees finally buckled, she fell straight into someone’s arms.

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

_It’s sunset when he finally opens his eyes, a soft humming rousing him from his slumber as fingers gently carded through his hair. He doesn’t know this tune, or maybe he does. He thinks he likes it, though. It relaxes him. He feels at ease as he inhales the earthy smells wafting around him, smiling contentedly before lifting his head to take in his surroundings. He’s in a forest, curled up on a stump, but he doesn’t know why._

_How did he get here?_

_“What is it, Mieczysław?” His mother asks. “Did you have a nightmare?”_

_“No, I…” he trails off, shaking his head and blinking. He can see faces in his mind’s eye, faces he thinks he should know – a boy with a crooked jaw, a girl with hair like fire, a man whose eyes crinkled when he smiles, and more, so many faces with no names – but everything is too hazy, like a dream._

_“Go back to sleep, Mieczysław.” His mother tells him soothingly. “You need your rest. It’s almost time.”_

_“For what?” He asks._

_“You’ll see.” She says, stroking his cheek. “Now sleep, my sweet boy.”_

_His eyes flutter and he nods because sleep sounds good. He wants to sleep._

_Laying his head back down on his mother’s lap, he drifts off once more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.


	8. Tether

_They’ve ventured so deep into the woods that if it weren’t for the specks of sun peeking through the dense canopy of leaves above, he’d think it was already nighttime. He’s long since lost track of the time but it feels like they’ve been walking for forever – his feet hurt and he’s getting hungry. Glancing around, the trees all look the same now and he wonders if they’ve just been going in circles – he’s certain he’s seen that same moss-covered rock at least three times. His mind drifts to his mom and he hopes she hasn’t noticed he’s wandered off. He knows he’s not allowed to go anywhere with strangers but…_

_He peers up at the woman holding his hand. She doesn’t look like the people his parents warned him about, not like a suspicious man offering candy from a white van. She looks like an angel, with skin that seems to glow whenever the light catches it. She must feel him staring because she glances down at him, and Stiles can’t help but flush with embarrassment at having been caught, but she only smiles._

_“We’re almost there.” She says._

_Stiles fidgets. “Where are we going?”_

_“Somewhere secret.” The woman replies. “Do you trust me?”_

_Something in his gut twists but he can’t place why, so he nods, if hesitantly. “I guess. But I can’t stay long or my mommy will leave without me and then I won’t be able to go to Heather’s birthday party tomorrow.”_

_The woman laughs, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Of course, sweet boy.”_

_They keep walking and after what feels like another eternity, they reach their destination. Or so Stiles assumes, since they’ve stopped walking._

_It’s a stump. A large stump – massive – but a stump. Not a cool lair like he’d been hoping, or a dinosaur. Or a dinosaur lair._

_“Isn’t it marvelous?”_

_No, not really. He’s seen plenty of stumps before. The woman must notice his lackluster reaction because she elaborates._

_“It’s called a Nemeton.” She tells him. “For centuries, it acted as a beacon, drawing all manner of supernatural here from werewolves to druids. It was powerful, but sadly those powers died when it was cut down, and so too did ours. Fortunately, there are ways of giving it life again. All it needs is a little spark. Like you.”_

_Alarm bells are going off in his head, despite her kind smile and soothing voice._

_“I wanna go back.”_

_He tugs his hand free from hers and steps back. The smile on the woman’s face vanishes and maybe it’s the shadows playing tricks with his eyes because her entire demeanor seems to change instantly. She looks furious, and it scares him. So he makes a run for it, turning his back to her and making a beeline for the opposite direction._

_He doesn’t get far before something grabs his ankle, sending him toppling face-first into the dirt. As he’s dragged back toward the woman, he cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, and his heartbeat spikes when he sees that a vine has snaked its way up his calf._

_As if by some wordless command, it tightens, and Stiles cries out. He squirms, clawing at the ground in a feeble effort to get away._

_And then there’s a low rumble – like an angry dog – and a dark blur leaps out of nowhere, cutting clean through the vine gripping his leg. He kicks it off and scrambles back, taking refuge behind a nearby bush and trying to make himself as small as possible. He hears the creature – it looked too big to be a dog, but it’d moved too fast to get a good look – snarling and snapping until there’s a pained gasp, followed by ragged breathing. After a long pause, a second voice speaks up._

_“You’re trespassing on Hale territory.”_

_“I was simply –”_

_“I know exactly what you were doing. Now give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”_

_“Because that’s not how the great Talia Hale runs her pack.” The first woman says, voice strained. “Besides, why does it matter? What’s one child? It’s not as if he’s one of your whelps.”_

_Another growl._

_“Don’t test my patience. You’re already on thin ice, coming here uninvited and stealing an innocent child from his mother.”_

_“He’s more than that. You can feel it too, can’t you?”_

_“ **He’s not yours to take**.” Comes the harsh reply. “Now, I’m going to let you leave Beacon Hills unharmed, but if I catch you on my land again, or if I find out you’ve tried to take the boy or _ any _other, I won’t be so merciful. Do I make myself clear?”_

_“… yes.”_

_A few minutes pass in silence before Stiles hears the sound of feet shuffling toward him. He buries his face in his knees, trying desperately to become invisible, but then a hand touches his shoulder and it’s as if the fear is being drained from him because he suddenly feels relaxed. When he lifts his head, he sees a different woman – the other voice he’d heard – kneeling in front of him so that they are at eye-level, concern etched across her face._

_“Mieczysław, right? Mieczysław Stilinski?”_

_Stiles nods, sniffling. “Yeah...”_

_Relief washes over the woman’s features._

_“I’m so glad I found you. Your mom and dad have been looking all over for you.”_

_Stiles’ bottom lip quivers a little. “Am I in trouble?”_

_“No, little one. You’re not in trouble.”_

_A pitiful sob escapes his throat and he can’t help but fling his arms around the woman. She doesn’t seem to mind, gently patting his back and letting him cry openly into her shoulder._

_“Shh… it’s alright. Everything’s okay. You’re safe now.” She tells him quietly, and he believes her. “Let’s get you back to your parents, shall we?”_

_As his sobs die down once more to sniffling, he nods meekly. He just wants his mom and dad, but when he starts to move away, he feels a hand on the back of his neck._

_“I’m sorry, little one.” The woman whispers, but before Stiles can ask_ why _she’s sorry, he feels something sharp pierce his skin._

_The last thing Stiles sees is two red orbs, before his world goes dark._

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

When Lydia came to, she was met with a blinding white light and the sound of multiple voices talking around her, although she was too disoriented to distinguish them or zero in on what was being said. As the world came into focus and her mind finally cleared, however, everything came flooding back – Stiles vanishing without a trace, everyone’s memories of him being tampered with, being forced to enlist the help of _Peter_ of all people, confronting one of the faeries responsible, Scott showing up at the last second – and she shot up, eyes wide and frantic.

 

Which turned out to be a terrible idea when the blood rushed to her head as a result.

 

“Lydia!” Scott was at her side in an instant, grasping her hand to help steady her. “Lydia, are you okay?”

 

“She’d probably be a lot better without you crowding her, McCall. Give her some breathing room.”

 

Lydia’s heart stopped. She knew that voice – she’d recognize it anywhere – but she couldn’t actually believe she was hearing it.

 

Slowly, she turned to see the source.

 

Sure enough, it was him. She wasn’t just imagining it. He looked the same, but he held himself differently, like he was at ease rather than constantly on edge. Her throat tightened when their eyes finally locked and he offered her a rare genuine smile.

 

“I got your message.”

 

“And you came.” She whispered.

 

They stared at each other for a little while longer before someone cleared their throat, drawing her attention away from Jackson and over to Peter, who stood off to the side, leaning against the sink. What surprised her even more was that he wasn’t the only Hale in the room – Derek and Cora were also there, the former lingering by the window with his arms crossed while his sister sat atop the same counter as Peter. Malia was also present, Lydia noticed then, straddling one of the only chairs in the room while shooting her biological father the occasional glare any time he so much as moved a muscle.

 

She absently wondered how awkward _that_ family reunion must have been before turning back to Scott.

 

“How long was I out?”

 

“Half a day.” Scott answered with a grimace.

 

Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach. “So we could already be too late.”

 

“Not quite,” said Deaton as he joined them in the back of the clinic. Once he had everyone’s attention – or, at least, everyone who was present – he went on. “Sacrifices are important. They aren’t usually performed indiscriminately because they _mean_ something to those who benefit from it, whether it be rain for crops or to appease a deity. They’ll wait until the time is right.”

 

“Tomorrow night’s the full moon.” Malia piped up. “That sounds like a pretty sacrifice-y time to me.”

 

“It’s not just the full moon. It’s the Summer Solstice – a changing of the seasons.” Deaton told them.

 

“Double whammy. Great. And we still don’t know where they’re keeping him.” Jackson muttered, rolling his eyes. “Only Stilinski would get himself kidnapped by Faeries.”

 

Lydia threw him a warning look before a thought struck her. “Can’t you guys just sniff him out?”

 

“We’ve already tried that.” Derek said. “If he’s still here somewhere, they’ve masked his scent.”

 

“Ugh, I hate magic!” Malia groaned. “How did they even pull this off without any of us detecting them?”

 

“With these.” The vet replied, pulling a clear baggie out of his coat pocket and holding it up so that they could all see its contents: mushrooms. “Do any of you know what a Faerie Ring is?” The only one who didn’t look entirely confused was Scott, so Lydia assumed he’d already been given a rundown. “They’re a cluster of mushrooms that crop up in the shape of a circle after Faeries gather. I found these in the Preserve, where the Hale house used to be, but they’re all over Beacon Hills, including outside your houses. My guess is that they did it while you were asleep, when you would have had your guard down – been at your most vulnerable.”

 

Lydia frowned, remembering the night she last spoke to Stiles, how the lights flickered and then… nothing. She’d woken up the next morning at her desk.

 

“They did it. They put us to sleep.” She realized.

 

Deaton nodded grimly. “There is a silver-lining to all of this, however. For now, their reach seems to be limited.”

 

“That’s why Jackson, Derek and Cora weren’t affected – they weren’t anywhere near here.” Scott deduced.

 

“Peter wasn’t either.” Malia said accusingly, prompting the werewolf in question to raise his hands in defense.

 

“I’ll have you know that I had nothing to do with this.” He stated. “How could I? Being that I was locked up and under twenty-four hour surveillance.”

 

“You’d figure out a way.” His nephew muttered.

 

“I’m flattered that you believe that I could orchestrate such an elaborate scheme from the confines of my cell, _while_ – might I add – drugged out of my mind on Wolfsbane. Truly. But as it is I happen to be quite fond of Stiles so even if I _were_ capable of such a feat, what would I possibly gain?” When no one answered, he sneered. “That’s what I thought.”

 

The tension in the air was stifling, and Lydia could only imagine what it was like for the wolves.

 

“He may be telling the truth.” Deaton finally said. “The wards around Eichen House are designed to keep supernatural influences out.”

 

Peter caught Lydia’s eye and raised a brow as if to say, _“Told you so.”_

 

“Okay, so that explains Peter, but… why wasn’t Lydia affected?” Cora asked, speaking up for the first time.

 

Lydia’s gaze flickered over to the vet.

 

 _That_ was something she too would like to know, but instead of Deaton, it was Scott’s voice that answered.

 

“Because she’s his tether.” All eyes turned to the Alpha, including Lydia’s. Scott looked like he’d just had some kind of epiphany as he glanced around the room, seeking validation. “That night we sacrificed ourselves – you said our tethers had to be someone we shard a strong bond with, right? Lydia was Stiles’ tether. Maybe that’s why her memories couldn’t be tampered with – because they’re connected somehow. I mean… it’s possible, right?”

 

It certainly made sense, at least as much as anything else when it came to their supernatural world. At this point, she just accepted it. Judging from Deaton’s expression, he seemed to agree, but before he could reply a commotion drew everyone’s attention to the door. Seconds later, Sheriff Stilinski came barreling in with Parrish in tow, struggling to hold him back with human strength.

 

“Where is he?” He demanded. “What the hell happened to my son?”

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

 

It took twenty minutes to calm the Sheriff down and another thirty to relay everything they knew thus far which, as it turned out, was very little. During that time, Lydia learned about the dream that had jogged Scott’s memory and how he, with help from Derek, had been able to use his claws to essentially jumpstart the rest of the pack’s. She also found out that shortly after her visit to the station, the Sheriff had practically torn his house apart, only to discover his son’s room, sealed off – the same son he’d been convinced had been a stillborn.

 

By the time they finished, Mason had returned with Liam and Hayden. They had been tracking down the remainder of the Faerie Rings. According to Deaton, destroying the circles would weaken the faeries’ hold on the town – not that that mattered in the long run, if they didn’t find Stiles in time, but Lydia kept that thought to herself. She knew everyone else was thinking the same thing.

 

“Were you able to catch their scent?” The Sheriff asked.

 

Liam shook his head, and the Sheriff’s face fell. Lydia didn’t need to be a werewolf to sense what the man was probably feeling right now. He slumped down in his seat, burying his face in his hands as he struggled to hold it together.

 

“I can’t lose him. He’s all I have.” He said weakly.

 

“You’re not going to.” Scott said. “We’re going to get him back.”

 

“ _How_?” Cora snapped. “We don’t know where they’re keeping him and his scent’s been tampered with which means _we_ –” she gestured to the other wolves in the room, “– can’t track him down. And if your boss is right about the sacrifice taking place _tomorrow_ , our window just got a lot smaller.”

 

“We’ve faced worse odds before.” Scott told her.

 

“She has a point, though. If we can’t track him down, how are we supposed to stop it?” Hayden asked.

 

“There is one method we can try.” Lydia said, catching Scott’s eye and holding his gaze, watching his brow furrow as her words sunk in. He opened his mouth to object, then closed it, glancing over at Deaton who seemed already know exactly what she was thinking if his grimace was anything to go by. Lydia fought the urge to scoff. “I don’t like it but it might be our only option right now.”

 

“Care to fill the rest of us in?” Jackson asked.

 

“Oh, nothing much. Just that someone’s going to have to take a bath.” Peter remarked, inspecting his claws before smirking at the teen. “Of the ritualistic variety.”

 

Lydia stared at the older werewolf in confusion, wondering how he even knew about it, before remembering that Peter often knew a lot more than he let on. He did, after all, bring himself back to life – granted, she had helped, but he had been the one with the knowledge to do so.

 

Deaton’s voice snapped her back to reality. “It would have to be someone close to Stiles. Someone who shares an emotional connection with him.”

 

That didn’t exactly narrow it down, since just about everyone in the room shared _some_ kind of bond with Stiles. Even Peter. The obvious choice would be Scott, since Scott was his best friend – his brother – but Scott had already participated in the ritual when he, Allison and Stiles became surrogate sacrifices for their parents. At that thought, Lydia’s gaze flickered over to the Sheriff just as he spoke up.

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

“It’s dangerous.” Scott said.

 

“You think I care about that? He’s my _son_. I’ll do whatever it takes to find him.”

 

“ _You_ might not have any regard for your safety, Sheriff, but Stiles certainly does. Do you really want to make him an orphan?” Peter remarked.

 

“Peter –” Derek started, but it was too late.

 

The Sheriff was on his feet in an instant, hand reaching for his gun, but Scott intervened before he could do anything, stepping between the two men and placing a firm hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder. Reluctantly, the Sheriff backed down, although he didn’t stop glaring at Peter.

 

“He’s right. Stiles would never forgive us if anything happened to you.” Scott told him. “It’s too risky.”

 

For a moment, the Sheriff looked like he wanted to protest, but eventually he gave up.

 

“Lydia, you were his tether last time.” Scott said quietly, after what felt like an eternity of silence. “If the reason you remembered him… if you two are somehow connected because of that…”

 

She nodded. He didn’t need to elaborate. She already knew what he was implying.

 

“I’ll be able to find him.”

 

“Wait, but if Lydia is Stiles’ tether… then who’s hers?” Malia asked, lifting her head to glance curiously around the room.

 

Lydia scanned the faces in the room, eyes lingering a little longer on Jackson before sliding to Peter, who raised a hand to indicate himself and didn’t look nearly as surprised (or horrified) as everyone else.

 

“What can I say? We have a history. A connection, if you will.” He said, unperturbed by their reactions.

 

As much as she hated to admit it, it was true. It was Peter’s bite that had unlocked her abilities – abilities that might have otherwise stayed dormant. He also had the benefit of having lived in her head, and while most of that time had been spent terrorizing her and making her think she was going crazy, he still knew her better than most. He was one of the few who saw through the façade she’d put on for the rest of the world, knew what made her tick. But their bond was a two-way street; after all, without her, he would still be rotting beneath the floorboards of his ancestral home.

 

After some protests, Deaton ushered the rest of the pack out of the room to prepare the ritual. When he was finally done dumping the last bag of ice in, he turned to look at her.

 

“You already know what this ritual entails – how it will affect you.”

 

Lydia nodded. “Darkness around my heart.”

 

Deaton gave her a wry smile.

 

“And then some. Being a Banshee, you tow the line between life and death. It will permit you to see things, _hear_ things that most wouldn’t. But whatever you do, don’t stray from the path.” He said ominously.

 

She swallowed, nodding weakly before approaching the tub – and Peter. She ignored him as she stripped down to her undergarments, setting them aside before dipping her foot in. The first step stole the breath from her lungs, so cold that it burned, but as much as she wanted to cry from the pain, to jump out, she pushed forward. She clenched her teeth as she lowered herself into the icy water until she was almost completely submerged, save for her head.

 

When Peter placed his hands on her shoulders, she took a deep breath and slipped below the surface.

 

She fought back against her body’s instinct to live, to breathe, Peter’s human grip tightening as he held her under, before darkness finally embraced her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a bit with this chapter because I wanted to bring back a lot of characters but I also didn’t want to oversaturate the story. Also I was in the middle of moving, so that kind of backtracked me. Anyway, please COMMENT and let me know what you think.


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